


What's This?

by Voidpurrmina



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Fluff, M/M, chrom doesn't know what mistletoe is, holiday fluff, oh god there's so much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:26:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28279866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voidpurrmina/pseuds/Voidpurrmina
Summary: It comes to Chrom's attention that Grima has never experienced any of the joys of the winter festival.This simply cannot do.
Relationships: Chrom/Gimurei | Grima/My Unit | Reflet | Robin
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	What's This?

**Author's Note:**

> it's not christmas yet i can post this right?
> 
> i had like 3 weeks to write this, blinked, and then had 4 days. time management is my passion.  
> im no good with titles but i feel like Nightmare Before Christmas's "What's This?" was the best i could do

“What do you mean you’ve never celebrated winter festival!?” Chrom stares wide-eyed at his white-haired companion who has just nonchalantly dropped the most emotionally-devastating bomb of the week. It is safe to say that Grima is largely unperturbed about the whole thing for reasons that Chrom cannot even begin to fathom. Never celebrated the winter festival? _The_ winter festival?? This simply cannot do.

“I mean that we do not celebrate it at all in Plegia. At least, I didn’t. And no one around me had so much as a fake tree set up.” Grima says, idly picking at something from under a nail. He stops only to set his wine-red eyes on Chrom with a quirk of his brow. “Now, I’m sure there is the odd Plegian who celebrates the winter festival, but judging by what your entire neighborhood looks like-” he gestures to a nearby window darkened with the night sky where, in view, is someone’s house is positively decked out in colorful, blinking lights. “-I’m guessing that you all take it very seriously.” 

Chrom scratches the back of his neck bashfully. “Well, er, yes. We do. At least, my family does. And you’re family. So hopefully you can understand my shock when you mentioned that you’ve never taken part in any winter festival activities.” Grima snickers a bit.

“So I’m guessing that you’d like to show me how you celebrate?”

“Tomorrow?” Chrom chirps hopefully.

Well, it does seem entertaining. Plus, it makes Chrom happy and that is reason enough.

“Tomorrow.”

\- - -

“Get up.”

Chrom hears a low groan. What he doesn't hear, though, is the sound of Grima getting out of bed so he nudges the sleepy man again.

"Grimaaaaa-"

He hears another groan, this one louder than the first. Almost there.

“Come on, you can’t be that tired-” Chrom tugs the comforter off of Grima and drops it onto the floor. That gets an immediate reaction, as Grima seizes up from the cold and just barely opens his eyes to meet an unusually chipper Chrom given what time it probably is in the morning.

“What time is it-?” Grima says in something that can only loosely be classified as not a growl.

“6:15.”

“In the morning??” The white-haired man’s eyes go from slits to wide open and he sits up straight. “Chrom, I swear to you that I adore you in each and every sense of the word, but pray tell why you have gotten me up at _six-fifteen in the morning?”_

“You said you wanted me to show you how my family celebrates the winter festival. This is part of it.”

Regret has never come so swift in Grima’s life.

\- - -

"And so we're out here because…?" Grima trails off. It's cold and snowy outside and despite throwing on most of the warm things he could find, he still manages to shiver like a wet dog. It’s so damn cold.

Chrom is a lucky bastard, he’s rarely ever cold. Grima is practically cold-blooded in comparison, like some sort of weird lizard. His hands are always abnormally chilly and while that’s great for sneaking up on Chrom and pressing them against the back of his neck to make him jump, it’s not very comfortable in day-to-day life. At least the set of lights he's unraveling gives him something to do with his hands so they're not as frigid as they potentially could be out here. 

"This is part of our tradition!" Chrom shouts from on top of a ladder leading to the roof of the house. Grima can hear him just fine without the need to yell, especially since the section of the roof currently being decorated isn't particularly high, but it doesn't make much of a difference either way.

They are almost finished after what seems like forever. Seeing Chrom fumble with the tail of the last string of lights brings a relieved sigh out of Grima. The end is near and he is ready for it.

"When I was a kid, my parents would wake up early and decorate the house with lights. Since their passing, Emm and I would do it in their stead." He turns his head to face Grima and lets loose a grin brighter than any strung-up light. "Getting out and doing it early gets the toughest part of the day out of the way!"

He makes his way down the ladder and plugs in the lights.

The scene is almost absurd.

Even though a healthy amount of the people in this neighborhood have lights already hung up, seeing it light up their own house fills Grima with awe. Blues and greens and reds blink in slow succession with a bright glow and the sight is almost — almost — worth the lost sleep. There are pure white lights, too, hanging off of the edge of the roof like artificial icicles (which are entirely unnecessary, Grima might add. It's snowing, so there will be real icicles to see soon, right?) Chrom looks proud of himself. As he should, really. The house looks fantastic. Grima is even willing to stay outside in the cold for a little longer, just to look at the lights. The two of them stand there, side by side, enjoying their work.

He doesn’t even get mad when Chrom mushes a snowball against his cheek as a cheap attempt at starting something. He wipes the cold snow off of his cheek and turns to face a very smug Chrom. It’s such a stupidly easy bait into doing what he wants.

Part of him is ashamed that it works.

“You are aware that this means war, correct?” Grima purrs as he leans down to scoop snow into his gloved hands. Chrom will pay for much more than he has bargained. 

Even though Chrom tries to run, that snowball gets planted right in the back of his head. His full-body shiver makes Grima chuckle darkly as he idly tosses a snowball up into the air and watches it fall back into his hand with a small thump. “Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now, especially since you are the one who started this.”

But Chrom stands his ground with the air of an experienced general in the middle of a familiar battlefield. “You fiend. This war has only just begun!”

The fool. If this is a war then Grima is in his element.

The front yard quickly dissolves into a savage combat zone. Snowballs fly left and right. Shrill and badly-hushed squeals and giggles echo throughout the early morning and they stay outside playing like little children for much longer than either of them expected to. They watch the sunrise over their ruined, snowy lawn and it is only when they’re both collapsed in the middle of messy snow angels that the cold starts to seep into Grima’s bones again and he’s reminded that he is also wet from the remnants of melted snowballs. Typically this would irk him but...

Perhaps this experience isn't… wholly unpleasant.

\- - - 

After experiencing the freezing outdoors and being up close and personal with half the snow in the front lawn, Grima is very happy to be back indoors and experiencing the luxury of modern heating and a wool blanket. No time to relax, however, for the next holiday festivity is underway! Fortunately, for Grima, this next task does not require going outside or feeling remotely cold at all. Unfortunately, for Grima, this task is not something he is not at all good at.

Baking.

When Chrom leads him to the kitchen, he feels a looming sense of dread. Never will he admit it out loud, but his skill in the kitchen is… less than subpar.

"Now, I know that you have some trouble with baking," Chrom starts as he pulls out bowls and pots and various other kitchenware, "but give it a chance!" His hesitance is palpable. The kitchen is not his ally, but… if it were to help Chrom…

Oh, the things he does for love.

(Truthfully, he doesn't think he's that terrible. Baking and alchemy are quite closely related, and if he can be good at one then surely the other can't be hard to master. One day he'll get the hang of it.)

Clearly, the scowl on Grima's face is concerning because, in the middle of his brooding, Chrom lays a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “I feel like it's important to say that you won't be doing it alone. I am going to be right here with you the whole time."

Surprisingly, that helps him calm down. Maybe it won't be that bad.

So he gets to work.

Measuring and pouring is easy. Precision comes naturally and the task is actually quite enjoyable. 

It’s the wording that he doesn’t get.

“How am I supposed to know what creamed butter looks like?” He seethes and lets Chrom handle the electric mixer for now. He’s dealing with the dry ingredients instead so that he at least feels somewhat productive. It goes well until he sneezes over the mixture and launches some of it into the air. It’s absolutely everywhere and now Grima smells like cloves. Chrom finds it very amusing and tries not to laugh in the most obvious way possible.

(Every day, fate tests Grima a little more. One day he’ll snap and commit arson. And it will be because he cannot bake.)

Somehow, under the care of Chrom, the butter becomes smooth or creamy or whatever adjective was used in that gods forsaken recipe. Certainly better than whatever Grima could have done. “It’s easy,” Chrom explains, “you mix it until it just looks different! You don’t have to pay so much attention to minutiae like that.” He still doesn’t get it. Maybe it is best to leave such an ordeal to Chrom.

Mixing together the wet and dry ingredients is a cinch (with Chrom’s help, of course, because leaving Grima alone with ingredients and an electric mixer is dangerous and should never be attempted) and they mold the sticky dough into two large, flat discs. As they wrap the dough in plastic wrap, Chrom speaks up. “Usually we let the dough sit overnight. I don’t know what for, Emm says it’s for flavor or something. We can’t let it sit overnight, but 30 minutes should still be a fair amount of time.” 

Grima shrugs as he places his share of the plastic-wrapped dough into the fridge. “Overnight or 30 minutes, It does not matter to me.” His footsteps are light as he retreats out of the kitchen and into the living room. “I have 30 minutes of free time. I know precisely what I will be doing.”

And with that, he conks out on the couch.

\- - -

(It’s a little fuzzy, but he can feel something warm cover him in his sleep. It’s a blanket. Courtesy of Chrom, probably.)

(He should thank Chrom for today. He really is too good for him.)

\- - - 

Grima wakes up later to the smell of strong sweetness and spices wafting into the living room from the kitchen. He pads into the kitchen to find Chrom taking a batch of human-shaped cookies straight out of the oven. He smiles and places the batch on top of the stove hastily. 

“You slept for an extra 15 minutes or so. But I did make you wake up early today so, ah, you deserve the extra rest.” 

Grima takes a peek at the baked treats. They smell strong. And while that may or may not be a bad thing, he still wants to try them. Just for the experience. He reaches for a cookie when Chrom suddenly bats at his hand with an oven mitt. 

“You can't take the cookies yet!” Chrom chides. Grima pouts and draws his hand back. “They haven’t even been decorated yet! Show them some mercy.” 

“Mercy has never been on my agenda,” Grima retorts but retreats anyway. For now.

“It doesn’t have to be. But before you mercilessly wolf down the cookies, help me clean up the kitchen, will you? I have to make the icing.” 

It’s simple but meaningful work. The repetitive motions of washing kitchenware and wiping counters lull Grima into a gentle state and before he knows it, he’s-

"Finished," grumbles the Plegian while he dries his wet hands on his pants. Chrom scoops the last of the freshly-made icing into a bag and places it on the counter right next to another bag filled with icing. 

"Good!" Chrom chirps as he claps his hands together. "Now we decorate!"

\- - - 

"Are your cookies supposed to look so… terrified?"

Neither of them have really fancied Grima as an artist, but those poor cookies look genuinely scared and Chrom is only slightly concerned for his lover’s thought process. 

They only have small plastic bags filled with icing in place of real piping bags. There is no way Grima should be able to convey that much emotion into one cookie with such a basic tool. It’s surreal. And kind of scary, actually.

"I have decided that they are aware of their own mortality," Grima responds, as if recounting something as normal as the weather, "you'd be scared too if you existed only to be eaten."

Chrom looks at his own set of decorated cookies. The faces are drawn on clumsily and it is clear that he does not have the steady hand of an artist. Still… he feels as though his poorly-iced cookies have been blessed far more than those decorated by Grima.

\- - - 

“So are we allowed to eat them yet?” Grima has been sneaking predatory glances at the cookies from the living room for a while now. When he isn’t eyeing the pastries, he’s fiddling with the wood and kindling in the fireplace. There should be a fire up and running pretty soon.

Chrom, meanwhile, dumps hot cocoa mix into two mugs and waits for milk to simmer in a pot. Even if it’s only of the boxed variety, hot chocolate is always better when it isn’t microwaved. “We’ll eat them soon, I promise.” 

He smiles to himself. Chrom did not expect Grima to be so invested in this. Sure, Grima has always enjoyed learning about cultures that differ from his own, but it seems like he’s enjoying himself. He looks like he’s having fun! 

He doesn’t have much more planned for today. Just a cheesy film about holiday spirit or whatever in front of the fireplace. It’s only about midday but neither of them will protest spending the rest of the day watching dumb movies.

He pours the hot milk into the mugs and walks into the living room with one in each hand and a plate of gingerbread cookies carefully balanced on top of one of the mugs. He’s careful not to spill anything as he walks and Grima has the fire burning brightly in the hearth by the time he makes his way over there. His companion is already swaddled in half of a blanket that is much too large for his frame. The other half of it is on the floor waiting to be wrapped around Chrom. 

“I put something special in the cocoa,” Chrom says proudly as he passes Grima a mug and drapes the open half of the big blanket across his shoulders. The Plegian stares at the drink skeptically before taking a small, hesitant sip. 

His eyes light up.

“It’s spicy?” he mumbles. Chrom grins. He put a little cinnamon and cayenne powder in the mix as a surprise. A very welcome one, he guesses, seeing how Grima takes another sip and smirks. 

“And here I was, thinking Ylisseans knew nothing of spices!” Chrom almost protests the verbal jab before remembering just how much more complex Plegian cuisine is in terms of flavors compared to Ylissean food. Maybe the latter is a little boring when the alternative is so much more unique… He’s glad that Grima at least finds this pleasant.

Chrom turns on a nondescript holiday movie while Grima makes a beeline for the cookies. Neither of them have eaten anything today and Grima would be lying through his teeth if he were to say that he wasn’t starving. He bites off an arm of the cookie and it takes a second for the flavor to really hit him but-

Oh.

Oh, that’s wonderful.

The smile on Grima’s face tells Chrom that it was well worth the wait.

He is so glad that they are enjoying this together.

\- - -

It's halfway through the second movie, three-quarters through the plate of cookies, and one mug of spiced cocoa when Grima decides to say something.

“Chrom?”

The man in question blinks and turns his attention to Grima. “Yeah?”

The latter casually slots his fingers between Chrom’s own as he keeps his eyes on the fire in front of him.

“Thank you for sharing this with me. Today has been fun.”

Chrom presses a tiny kiss against Grima’s temple instead of saying anything. With Emmeryn doing business abroad and Lissa staying with Maribelle for the holidays, he thought that the days leading up to the winter festival would be a lot more morose. And in a sense, they kind of were. Nothing can truly replace family, after all. But maybe it doesn’t have to be as bad as it could be. With Grima, things seem a lot easier. They always do.

He smiles and almost kisses Grima’s head a second time before he freezes and realizes that he forgot something.

He sheds the blanket and stands to his feet to face Grima, who is moderately perturbed that his closest source of heat has left him.

“I’ll be back soon, I forgot an important part of the last tradition I want to share with you today!”

(Okay, to be fair it really isn’t a tradition of Chrom’s family, and he just looked it up and thought it’d be fun to do with Grima.)

(But it’s not like Grima knows that.)

He sprints off out of Grima’s view and comes back, sitting down moments later with a sprig of a strange plant that he holds right over their heads. The Plegian eyes the spiny, glossy leaves, and the red berries. Then he looks back at Chrom’s dopey, excited smile. “And what is this supposed to be?”

“Mistletoe! It’s, uh, the final part of this culture I want to share with you today. You see, when two people are under it, they’re supposed to kiss.”

Chrom’s smile grows impossibly larger. There is a long pause before Grima says anything at all.

“... You do realize that the plant you are holding is holly, right?”

The Ylissean falters. Grima snickers.

“Actual mistletoe has white berries, you know. Not to mention that mistletoe is parasitic and sucks the nutrients from trees. The plant itself really isn’t all that romantic.”

When Chrom looks sufficiently horrified, Grima snatches the holly from Chrom’s hand and throws it across the room somewhere. 

“Chrom, you idiot. You don’t need to make up excuses to kiss me. If you want to do it, then do it, coward.”

And before Chrom can respond, Grima is suddenly upon him and kissing him ardently, stealing the air from his lungs and replacing it with a spiced warmth that snakes through his whole body and sets his heart aflame. They both hold onto each other tight and in that moment, Chrom wouldn’t let go of Grima for the world. 

He smiles as he holds Grima close and thinks to himself that he could never ask for any more than this.


End file.
